


Tending the Flames

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Oak and Ivy [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bards College, Complicated Relationships, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Guilt, King Olaf's Verse, Marriage of Convenience, Messy, Non-Canon Relationship, Passion, Post-Divorce, Rare Pairings, Romance, Sweet/Hot, Unmarriageable NPC, Unpopular pairing, Windhelm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A penniless Dunmer, barely surviving in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm, reels in a respectable bard from the capital and entices him to marry her. Some time later, she feels guilty about using him as a stepping stone to a better life, and leaves him, and Skyrim, behind. But it seems that their paths are destined to keep crossing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tending the Flames

The manuscript smelled of dust and mould; its pages had stuck together, so Viarmo had to use a needle to separate them - slowly, cautiously, not daring as much as to breathe too loudly, as if he were a healer stitching a wound. Every now and then he paused to stroke the ancient, wrinkled parchment. He couldn't help himself; it was just so soothing to pass his hand across the withered pages, to feel them with his skin... He found comfort in books; sitting there, in his study, one-on-one with some half-forgotten tome, granted him what certain highbrow poets would call nepenthe... Blissful oblivion. Books did not inflict pain; they amused and gave counsel - and if what they were telling him turned out to be too disturbing or too far-fetched - why, he could just close the book that was not to his liking, put it back on the shelf and find another one. As simple as that.  
  
'Headmaster?'  
  
Viarmo looked up from his desk. Giraud's polite cough and unobtrusive feet-shuffling in the doorway was a welcome distraction. He had found himself drifting away again. After all this time, he was still unable to fully concentrate on his work; even his constant fear that the Fire Festival, the very essence of the College, could soon be gone forever, at times faded away in the wake of gripping, persistent pain. All his life he had been reading about the suffering caused by love and loss; year in, year out, he had been citing the burning torment of not being near your heart's desire as a perfect example of poetic expression - and smirking to himself when he saw his students roll up their eyes and whisper to one another, 'This is a load of rubbish'. Yes, smirking, for he himself secretly found all that arm-wringing and tooth-grinding and hair-tearing rather hard to believe. But now - now he no longer looked down on the half-delirious ramblings of estranged lovers. In fact, if it were not for Giraud and Inge, he himself would have turned into a walking melodrama.  
  
'Ah, come in, my friend,' Viarmo forced himself to raise his head and give the Dean of History a smile. 'Sit. Make yourself at home'.  
  
Giraud slid inside the study - graceful and refined as always, a perfect example for those who had speechcraft and etiquette lessons with him - and perched himself on the chair the Headmaster had waved his hand at.  
  
'How is your progress?' he asked, making an ever so slight movement with his neck; that was the closest he would get to peeking over Viarmo's shoulder.  
  
The Headmaster gestured vaguely, returning to his laborious task of separating the pages.  
  
'It is authentic. King Olaf's Verse, as written by Svaknir himself. Of that, there is no doubt. But as for the content...' he sighed and bent down, narrowing his eyes to peer more closely at the smudged letters. 'So far, he has not gone far beyond insulting the King. I am not sure Jarl Eilisif will like that. Maybe there is something more further...'  
  
Having finally extricated the page he was working on from the sticky clutches of its neighbours, he pressed its corner gently in between two fingertips and turned it over. For a few seconds, the two men stared blankly at the open manuscript, and then Viarmo pounded the desk with his fist, letting out a short cry of frustration and disappointment. The text was irrevocably ruined, consumed by greasy, black mildew; the few words that were visible amounted to little more than a few blurs of different length.  
  
'It's that adventurer, I know it!' Giraud cried out, leaping up from his seat and starting to pace around the room in agitation, 'She has done something to the book! She had "untrustworthy" written all over her! I shouldn't have hired her! I _wouldn't_ have hired her - but you know that after we fell out of Eilisif's good graces, money has been short, and this riff-raff was the cheapest I could find! I can't believe she stooped so low!'  
  
Viarmo knitted his eyebrows; he had never seen Giraud lose composure like that; and frankly, in his current state, he found no more pleasure in the frantic cries of the good Dean than he would if he had a hangover.  
  
'Giraud, you are being ridiculous,' he said in exasperation. 'It's just the age of the manuscript. The adventurer has nothing to do with it. She did her job perfectly - delved into a dungeon, reached the burial chamber, no doubt dispatching quite a few draugr along the way, and brought back what she was sent after. Whatever do you have against...'  
  
He did not finish the sentence, his attention captured by a sudden discovery. There was a carelessly folded piece of paper slid in between the pages of the manuscript. Viarmo lifted it up to his eyes and unfolded it, hoping that it would contain some sort of clue as to what could have been written in the ruined part of the verse. But it turned out nowhere near as ancient as Svaknir' writings; it was a full map of Dead Men's Respite, sketched hurriedly in black ink. In some places there were crosses and exclamation points, added in red, which stood out like bleeding wounds. A few corners of the crypt's confusingly winding passages were circled and had arrows pointing to them, also red, also wound-like, with captions that all went along the same lines. _'Loot'. 'Lots of loot'. 'Do not forget loot'._ The map must have been drawn by that adventurer woman Giraud had hired to retrieve King Olaf's Verse. And one glance at it was enough to make Viarmo understand why the Dean had negotiated with her all by himself. Why he had not even told him what race she was, or what she looked like. Why he was so outspoken against her. Viarmo would know that writing anywhere; the map had been drawn by Illa. By his wife.  
  
***  
  
Time and time again, while dreaming and while awake, in that odd, dazed state that it took so much willpower to break out of, he returned to the day when they first met. Giraud had dragged him all the way to Windhelm, to show off some new talent he had just dug up - that writer fellow, Adonato. It was early evening, and the two humans decided to take a walk along the streets, Giraud being very eager to see the plaques on the walls of the Palace of the Kings - but Viarmo excused himself and hurried back to the room he had rented in the local tavern. They did not call this the coldest city in Skyrim for nothing; it had taken him less than half an hour to lose feeling in his feet and ears. His Altmer blood made the bitter frosts of Skyrim nigh on insufferable; even Solitude was just barely tolerable, during those few warm days before harvest season. As soon as Giraud and Adonato turned his backs on him, he broke into a run; he raced past the snow-capped buildings, rubbing his hands and coughing on the thick milky vapour that was gushing out of his mouth - and wondering why in Oblivion those streets never ended and when, oh, when he would finally reach the welcoming warmth of Candlehearth Hall. When, at long last, he reached the tavern, and its doors shut him off from the fierce cold, he thumped off towards his room without even stopping to greet the publican. He burst in, out of breath, shivering all over, with his mind set on crawling beneath the blankets and never ever coming out again - and froze in mid-step, his eyes widened, his jaw dangerously close to dropping. This awkward posture of his was mirrored by the young Dunmer woman pressing herself against the opposite wall, her hands still clasped round one of the books he had brought with him for the journey. He had surprised a thief.  
  
Slowly, deliberately, not taking her glaring red eyes off him, she lowered the book and raised her hands in the air.  
  
'I'll leave now, okay? I didn't have a chance to grab anything,' she said, her gaze still fixed on Viarmo. Her voice was deep and melodious; its sound sent a soft tingle through the Altmer's body, as if his blood was beginning to turn into wine. 'Just... Don't shoot none of that fancy Altmer magic stuff at me, all right?'  
  
He could not help but smile. 'I am no mage. I am a bard. The only harm I can do you is sing you to death'.  
  
For a split second, her eyes narrowed, as if she had just had a sudden thought; but then, the look was gone, and she started moving slowly towards the door. Viarmo noticed that she was limping. As she was side-stepping past the bed, her knees suddenly gave way, and she sank onto the covers and hung her head down on her chest.  
  
'Fine,' she muttered in resignation, 'Call the guards. I am a lousy thief anyway'.  
  
His heart jolting with a sudden, sharp pang of pity, he walked over to the bed and sat down at the woman's side. He was now able to take a closer look at her; she was short and sinewy, with ruffled copper hair that did not reach her shoulders; she wore mismatched, oversized boots, a pair of swampy-green trousers, made out of coarse sacking, and a once-white tunic, old and shabby, with broad, badly mended tears in several places. Sensing his intense stare, she shifted uncomfortably; her movement made one of the holes in her tunic slide to the side, almost exposing her chest. Viarmo swallowed loudly; it was not proper, his mouth watering like that. She was a thief; she had just tried to rob him; she should be lucky he was gracious enough not to report her to the proper authorities... Whatever was he thinking?  
  
'What happened to you?' he asked falteringly, placing his hand on her shoulder. Just to comfort her. Just to reassure her. Nothing more.  
  
She looked up at him. Her eyes, now half-closed, had a bright, liquid glow like lakes of lava. She passed her tongue over her dark, full lips and said idly,  
  
'Got into a fight with a Nord that was harassing me and my friend. Sent him running home like the pup that he is'. One of the corners of her mouth slid up in a smirk, exposing her teeth - not the perfect pearls out of love poems, but very even, adding charm to her expression. 'That oughta teach him to mess with me and Luaffyn... She's a bard like you, by the way; sings here at the Hall. I can't sing; so the only way to earn coin for me is to make house calls to careless Windhelm visitors like you'.  
  
'Why don't you learn a trade?' he asked; he had no idea why he was going on with this conversation - he couldn't be enjoying the sound of her voice, could he? Ah, what was the point denying; he was. The soft sound soothed him, caressed him; the melody of the voice soaked through ever fiber of his being, whispering words that were so, oh, so unlike what the woman was really saying...  
  
She shrugged. 'I have no calling for any trade. My father, Azura rest his soul, used to be a warrior; he taught me some fighting moves, in those rare moments when he was sober and not rambling about the old glory days of Morrowind... But that was it'.  
  
She had begun this phrase sitting a few inches away from Viarmo; she concluded it so close to him that her breath scorched his face. His hand was still on her shoulder; she gently wove her long, agile fingers through his and slowly, so slowly that he did not notice it till it was too late, moved his hand downwards, inside the tear in her tunic's chest. He started at the sudden burst of living warmth beneath his fingertips - but did not jerk his hand away. Instead, he continued his progress without her guidance. He felt as through he was driving a carriage down a steep hill and had suddenly lost control of the reins - deafened by the thunder-like pulsing of blood in his ears... and by the joyous hymn his body had begun singing the moment his flesh touched hers. This was insanity - he was a decent, law-abiding mer, an example to dozens of young bards studying under his guidance... Succumbing to the subtle siren call of some Dunmer vagabond he had never seen before - it was improper; it was scandalous. But he was enjoying every second of it.  
  
She seemed to have read his thoughts, for as she gently slid her hand across his chest, making him lay back onto the bed, and then moved on to unbuckle the belt of his coat, she murmured, still appearing to talk about her father, but referring to so much more,  
  
'Perhaps I could follow in his footsteps... After all, I have sufficient courage... I know when it is time to throw my caution to the wind...'  
  
  
It was quite a while since he had last been with a woman; he had already managed to forget how shallow and untrue were all the literary descriptions of passion he had read and had his students recite by heart. No poem could possibly match the feral, breathtaking force of her kisses, no hundred-volume epic had enough words to even begin to capture the enthralling rhythm of her body. This Dunmer, whose name he did not know, whose sole intention but a few hours ago had been to rob him, whom he would likely never see again after tonight, - she was a living song; every inch, every pore of her entranced him, like the magical call of a flute, like the throbbing thunder of a war drum...  
  
'Oh, not now, for gods' sake!' hissing out a curse in her native tongue, the woman slipped out of Viarmo's embrace and began groping round the creased covers for her clothes.  
  
'Wha- What is it?' he asked groggily, watching her through the slits of his half-lowered eyelids; he could still feel her taste in his mouth, and that taste petrified him, intoxicated him, as if he had just drunk several bottles of skooma.  
  
She pointed in silence to the ornamental shelf over the bed. One of the three ceramic plates that were placed on it had fallen off and now lay on the floor, broken into over a dozen pieces - and the other two were slowly moving towards the edge, completely of their  own accord. Viarmo lifted himself up on his elbow and rubbed his eyes in astonishment.  
  
'My grandfather,' the woman explained gruffly. 'He does not like it when I have... male company'.  
  
Viarmo raised his free hand up to his throat, suddenly gripped by the sensation that some poet had compared to being strangled by a flame atronach. So, she had... known other men before him. There was really nothing to be surprised about; young Dunmer women did have a certain... reputation. He told himself to stop being a fool; it was ludicrous to be jealous of a... one-night stand. Viarmo bit into his lips, repelled by his own line of thought. Even though this was _obviously_ a one-night stand, he could not bring himself to look at the Dunmer the way the voice of reason ordered him to. She was more than some slut that had dragged him into bed so that he would not rat her out to the guards; she had to be.  
  
'Your grandfather?' he echoed, his heart sinking at the sight of the woman sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her tunic back on. _Sweet, sweet Dibella, please not let it be over!_  
  
'Is he a sorcerer?'  
  
She snorted. 'Worse than that. He is dead. A ghost. He's supposed to be my ancestor guardian; but instead of making himself useful, like actually coming along when I summon him, he has great fun ruining my relationships. Sorry it had to end like this; but I'd best leave you be before he gets really nasty. That blue glowing s'wit; I swear, the next time we meet, I'll kick the ectoplasm out of him!'  
  
She got to her feet and turned her back on Viarmo. He watched her walk off in dazed disbelief, hypnotized by the swaying movements of her hips; the limp was miraculously gone, but he paid little heed to that at the time. As she placed her hand on the door handle, he felt that he could stand this no longer; naked, trembling, he leapt out of bed and, almost tripping over the sheets that had entangled themselves round his feet, rushed up to the Dunmer. Before she had time to realize what was going on - before either of them had time to realize what was going on - he gripped her by the wrist with one hand while lifting her head by the chin with another.  
  
'Don't go,' he half-whispered, half-sobbed in between kisses. 'Please... I don't care about any ghosts; I am ready to let all the ghosts in the world howl and wail over my head - just to make you mine again'.  
  
She smiled; in the poor light, it almost seemed to Viarmo that she was leering - like some beast of the wilds, as it sinks its claws into its prey... But it was a mere illusion; or so he told himself...  
  
'Why, you really are a bard,' she breathed softly, plunging her fingers deep into his mane of hair as he was pressing his mouth, over and over, against her neck. 'Let me taste just how much silver is in that tongue of yours, hmm?'  
  
The plates on the shelf rattled warningly. But Viarmo paid no attention to them, just as he had promised. Even when, one after another, they came crashing down on the floor. In fact, the loud shattering noise seemed to egg him on; he felt like a child who, when scolded by his mother, deliberately gets into more mischief. The more explicitly the unseen ghost showed his indignation, the more violent Viarmo became. He tore the woman's tunic in two; he bit into her shoulders; he pulled her closer to him by the hair, making her scream with pain and pleasure - all amidst the water jug soaring up from the wash basin and smashing against the wall, and the chairs whirling round and round and bumping into one another in the air, and the sheets tying themselves into knots, and the wooden bed creaking and folding itself as if it were a roll of cloth. When Giraud finally came back from his long stroll down the historical quarter of Windhelm and decided to look in at his Headmaster, he found him sprawled in the middle of the floor, fast asleep, among shards of broken dishware and wood splinters, with the some Dunmer woman nestling her head on his bare chest and with his face frozen in a wide, stupidly happy grin.  
  
  
Giraud left the next day, after appeasing the publican of Candlehearth Hall by solemnly swearing that Viarmo would pay for the broken furniture. The Headmaster stayed on for two more weeks. For fourteen days. Fourteen days of strolling across the severely beautiful volcanic tundra of Eastmarch - curiously enough, this barren, unforgiving hold did not seem cold to him any more - never letting go of the Dunmer woman's hand, talking to her, singing to her, sinking into her crimson eyes and emerging completely, headlessly drunk, as if he had dived into a wine barrel. He told her of Solitude, and of the College, of the fatherly pride he took in the achievements of young bards and the plans he had for the future. And she nodded, and smiled, and replied with eager interest and wit that delighted him - but even if she had merely listened in silence, resting her head on his shoulder as they sat side by side on some rock overlooking the snowy wilds, warming her hands on his chest, beneath his clothes... it would have been enough. And she told him of her life in the Grey Quarter, of her kin's daily hardships and of the horrible, wounding contempt of the local Nords. She tried to sound light-hearted, but he could sense she was tired of lurking in the shadows for fear of being pelted with stones and empty bottles, of sleeping under a leaking roof with a blizzard raging outside, of having no decent clothes, no loving family, no hope for the future. And he tried to comfort her the best he could, praying for a way to make her as insanely, overwhelmingly happy as she made him. And before they knew it, the day would turn into night. There were fourteen nights, all spent in Candlehearth Hall. Nights of wild, sweaty embraces, of savage kisses, kisses that drew blood and almost made them suffocate, of ecstatic shrieks that drowned out the angry growls of the ancestral ghost. And nights of lying in each other's arms, drifting off to sleep in blissful silence that was filled with more meaning that all the long, sophisticated words in poetry textbooks. And as the fourteenth night dissolved into an icily beautiful, pale-gold dawn, Viarmo looked up at his Dunmer lover, caught hold of her hand, which was playing lazily with his hair, and, pressing it against his lips, said, simply, casually, as if he was wishing her a good morning,  
  
'Marry me'.  
  
When the good Elda went in later that day to see if her Altmer guest and his lady friend had broken anything again, all that she discovered was a fat coin purse left for her trouble. Viarmo and Illa - for she had finally told him her name, Illari Oreyn, Illa to her closest friends - were already half-way south, in a carriage bound for Riften.  
  
  
Those were truly the golden days of the Bards College. Like a late-night reveller that wanders, swaying, through the streets, enticing disgruntled passersby to share a drink with him, the Headmaster wanted everyone to take a sip of his overflowing happiness. Ah, the songs that were sung; the plays that were staged; the lavish performances that were put together to please the Court and the good people of Solitude! The grey-arched halls of the College rang with merry echoes; everyone, from the stern Dean Inge to the youngest apprentice, was as busy as a bee, composing music, writing new epic poems, reciting select scenes from renowned masterpieces... And among this bustling, noisy crowd, Viarmo walked, giving instructions, encouraging, laughing.  
  
His lovely young wife was almost always at his side, not quite as radiant and elated as he was, but charming and friendly to everyone. Where, oh where was that ragged pipsqueak that would come to New Gnisis in the early hours of the morning to drag her slobbering, incoherently reminiscing father back home? Where was that lanky, fierce-eyed teenager that ran through the streets, tossing rocks into the windows of Nords' houses, not missing a single pane, bending in two with the force of her own enraged screams - after her father, the self-proclaimed last of the Oreyns, had lashed out at some farmer that called him a Grey-Skin, and then collapsed onto the icy crust of the pavement, his heart having burst...? Where was that young woman in a torn tunic that spent her days doing odd jobs for those who deigned to hire a filthy ash-born and her nights picking locks and hiding from guardsmen? Gone. All gone. Replaced by a graceful Dunmeri lady, pretty as a painting in her brand new fine clothes - clothes that her husband would most likely tear the next time they made love, only to take her to Taarie's in the morning and have her choose new ones, gazing at her dreamily as she swirled around in front of the mirror.  
  
It was perfect. So, so perfect. Being near her. Feeling the warm, soft curve of her waist beneath his hand. Asking her for advice on the latest recital they were staging in the main square, and listening to what she had to say, always so sensible, always to the point. Letting her spoon-feed him at supper and purring happily as she stroked his hair and called it a lion's mane. Watching her sleep in his arms, exhausted after a long night, and passing his finger gently along the outline of her face. It was all so perfect... He had to have known; he had to have foreseen. Wasn't it one of the fundamental laws of fiction? Nothing perfect lasts forever; the heroes' happiness bores the reader.  
  
One day,  not even a year after the priest of Mara had spoken the fateful words at the Temple, Viarmo went to his quarters for a drink, having just finished holding an exam together with Giraud - and found Illa, his Illa, luxuriating on their bed, while some sap of a human was busily loosening her bodice. What was his name again? Mikael. One of his own apprentices. Not much of a talent, but a lot of swagger. And a firm belief that all women found him irresistible.  
  
Even now, he was still unable to remember what exactly he said or did to him. Inge would later tell him that he had broken two of the boy's ribs. Perhaps. Jealous rage left his mind barren like wildfire rushing through a forest. Having kicked Mikael out into the street, he returned to deal with Illa. Again, his memory was a bit of a blur. He vaguely recalled striking her, knocking her off her feet - and yelling something, so suffocated by anger that he did not hear his own voice. Did he call her a grey-skinned whore? Did she look up at him from the floor, wiping blood out of the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand? Did he attempt to kick her, before bursting out of the College again and slamming the door behind him? Or was it just a nightmare that would come haunting him later on? He had no way of knowing.  
  
It took him a few hours to cool off. He returned with a heavy heart, feeling guilty for how he had treated Illa. She was a Dunmer; she was younger than him; she had her weaknesses. He should have been more understanding. What if his outburst would cost him her love for him? Blaming himself for being too harsh, ready to toss himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness, he walked into his room with his arms spread out in an apologetic gesture... She was gone. His frantic, sob-like calls remained unanswered; her drawers and closets were almost entirely empty, and waiting for him on the pillow, there was a hastily scrawled note,  
  
_'Dear_ ~~Vivi~~ Viarmo,  
  
I have decided that it is time. It has been long overdue, actually. I am leaving. Leaving Solitude, leaving Skyrim, leaving you.  
  
No, it is not about Mikael. Forget Mikael; he is a brainless n'wah - claims to be the ladies' man and does not even know how to kiss properly. No, it is about us. I feel that before I go, I have to tell you the truth. On paper, because I will never have it in me to talk to you face-to-face.  
  
I do not love you. True, I enjoy your company. You are well-spoken and a true gentlemer; most of the others I've shared a bed with did not go past, 'Hurr gurl, take off yer clothes!'. I will never forget the time I spent with you... But I am not as passionately, head-over-heels insane about you as you are about me. Every time I see that doting look in your eyes, I feel my heart bleed with guilt. And today, as you almost ground that pink-faced fool to dust, I knew that I had to finish this. You love me so much; I am your life, your world; you would kill for me. You deserve better than this.  
  
You see, I seduced you. That was my plan all along. My friend Luaffyn studied here not too long ago; she told me that the College's headmaster was a handsome Altmer called Viarmo. As I was poking round your room in Candlehearth, I stumbled on a book which was inscribed, 'To Viarmo'. And then you walked in on me, a handsome Altmer if there ever was one, and said that you were a bard. I knew that this was my chance. Catching myself a famous, undoubtedly wealthy, elven bard from the capital - a perfect ticket out of the slums and into the great wide world.  
  
That was why Grandpa Modryn got so upset, bless his ectoplasm. Sure, he was mad because I was with a man, again; he was even madder because this man was not a Dunmer; but what made him maddest of all was that he saw right through me. He always does. He knew I was going to use you.  
  
And so I have. All this time. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. It will be best if you just forget about me. I am going to have my wedding ring disenchanted; I suggest you do the same. It's for your own good.  
  
No longer yours,  
  
Illari  
  
It was the first time he saw something written in her hand. And most likely, the last. But he knew that he would recognize Illa's handwriting among thousands of others. Those letters, bold, slanting letters, with splashes of ink here and there, were branded into his memory. They danced, burning, blinding, in the darkness before his eyes when he closed them; they were the only thing that existed in his world during those first few weeks when Inge and Giraud forced him to eat and sleep and kept him away from sharp objects and out of rooms where one could attach a rope to the ceiling. And now... now they leapt back at him again, from the corners of an adventurer's map that he had found tucked between the pages of King Olaf's Verse.  
  
***  
  
'Illa...' this short word escaped Viarmo's lips like a groan.  
  
Giraud wiped the sweat off his forehead.  
  
'I am sorry, Headmaster... I tried to keep you out of this... To protect you... She really was the cheapest I could find...'  
  
But Viarmo wasn't listening. He sat transfixed, his gaze chained to the small, leather-clad figure standing in the doorway. Gods, she had not changed a bit. Cut her hair even shorter, acquired a few battle scars... but apart from that, she was the same Illa. His Illa. His rapture, his joy and his pain. For a few seconds, he was overcome with a wild, insane desire to come up to her, to embrace her, to welcome her back home... But for no more than a few seconds.  
  
'Leave us, Giraud,' he said hoarsely. 'I need to talk to her in private'.  
  
The Dean of History withdrew obligingly, muttering to himself something along the lines, 'This cannot end well...'  
  
As soon as they were alone, Viarmo whirled to his feet and, turning his back on Illa, buried his face in his hands.  
  
'Why did you come back to Skyrim?' he choked. 'Do you find joy in tormenting me?'  
  
'Come now!' she exclaimed, with a rather forced laugh, tiptoeing up to him and attempting to catch a glimpse of his face. 'I'm just here for my map. rather silly of me, leaving it in the Verse like that. I'll snatch it and be on my way. Don't mind me'.  
  
With a sharp, loud intake of breath, he whirled round and grabbed her by the shoulders.  
  
'Don't mind you?! _Don't mind you?!'_ he roared. 'You broke my heart, Illari! And after... after what you have done... How... How _dare_ you walk in here as if nothing happened?!'  
  
She lifted her hand up to his face and brushed the tears out of the corners of his eyes. 'Shh... Let go of the past, Viarmo... I am sorry, I've always been, and I know it must hurt - but you've got to stop tormenting yourself. Detach yourself from me. Think of me as an adventurer. A mercenary. A sword for hire. After all, that's what I am these days. An adventurer is given a task, copes with it, then comes back for her map. Will the generous employer allow her to reclaim it?'  
  
Slowly, as if straightening each finger pained him, he let go of her; with a flash of a grateful smile, she bent over the desk - but lingered before picking up her map and stuffing it into her satchel.  
  
'What's this?' she asked, in a tone of sly curiosity, flipping back and forth the page of the manuscript that Viarmo had separated from the others. 'Oh my, are parts of the Verse missing? I know all about your plans to restore the Burning; won't work with an incomplete text, now will they?'  
  
'It's none of your concern,' Viarmo said wearily, sinking back into his chair. 'You got what you wanted; now go'.  
  
She shook her head and crouched down on the floor so that she was able to look up into his face. 'Our good old Giraud paid me to help bring back the Burning of King Olaf,' she said, her voice quiet but firm. 'And that's what I am going to do. Have you considered forging the missing bit? You know; copying that bard's style and writing in what the Jarl wants to hear?'  
  
He shrugged. 'I am not you,' he muttered bitterly, shaking her hands off his. 'I am not that good at saying what people want to hear, while in truth...'  
  
She cut him short.  
  
'Talking about the past again, are you? Don't. Focus on your work. Now, what did that passage say? _Your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages?_ So that means the Olaf did not really lure that dragon into a trap in Dragonsreach? Pity; I've been to the place; it simply reeks of history. Well, if he didn't capture him, what shall we say really happened? Maybe he caught the dragon asleep - or made a deal with him, staged an epic clash of man and dragon, just for the show? Or hey, maybe Olaf was Numinex? How's that for you? Fun little plot twist, what?'  
  
'The Jarl will probably think I'm on skooma,' Viarmo smiled, quite in spite of himself. Once again, he was carried away by the soothing melody of Illa's voice. He could not believe this happening. She had used him, mocked him, manipulated him - and instead of hating her, of pushing her away, he found himself captivated by her?..  
  
He resisted for a few more minutes, but then sighed at his own stupidity, pulled Illa up to her feet and, motioning to her to sit at his side, started a vehement discussion of what should and what should not be included into their rendition of King Olaf's Verse. And from that point on, it only got worse.  
  
They were in the middle of choosing a proper finish for the incomplete extract on the Winterhold assault - Viarmo was arguing disguised troops, Illa was insisting on magic - when Viarmo's inkwell slowly rose a few inches into the air and then turned over, pouring all its contents down on a stack of blank paper. Grandpa Modryn was clearly disapproving of his wayward descendant being reunited with her husband. Viarmo clenched his fists and cursed. That sudden, burning surge of excitement was unmistakable. He had felt precisely the same way when the wrathful ancestor was thrashing the room in Candlehearth Hall. He had... to... resist... But she was so close, so close to him, brought back by the gods just then he was learning to live with the thought that he had lost her forever... She was right; who cared about the past? They could start anew, right here, right now! _But she said she did not love you,_ the voice of reason objected. _What makes you think anything has changed? I don't care,_ he screamed silently, several books beginning to circle over his head like birds over the Solitude docks. _I don't care if she doesn't love me, if she is using me again, for some purpose of her own; yes, yes, this thought will torture me for years to come, but now... Now the only thing that matters is that I love her, I want her, and I'll be damned if I don't get a taste of her! Just one taste... before I find strength to turn away._  
  
Illa's ancestor guardian must have realized that his little performance was only making things worse and hastened to put the books back on their respective shelves. But it was already too late. Viarmo and Illa were in each other's arms, rolling on the floor, knocking over the furniture; he was drinking her in greedily, hurrying to quench the thirst that had begun to consume him, and she was... but he could no longer tell what she was feeling, what she was thinking...  
  
They fell asleep right there, as they had on their first night. On the floor, their bodies barely covered by shreds of torn clothing. Or at least Viarmo fell asleep. Illa watched him for a while, trying to decipher the traces of dreams that were gliding across his face, like shadows of clouds. Then, she brushed strands of sweat-drenched hair off his forehead and gave him one last kiss, soft, light, and sad...  
  
'You asked me why I came back to Skyrim,' she whispered. 'If I told you that it was because I missed you, because I felt I'd die if I did not see you again, because... because I think I do love you... You wouldn't believe me, would you? And I wouldn't blame you'.  
  
Rearranging the few clothes she had left on, she got up and walked away. There was still so much to be done. Her grandfather's ghost had recently taken to nagging her about starting to make a decent living and joining a guild. Well, the Thieves' Guild was a guild, right? Just the place for the likes of her.


End file.
